Isaac's Storm (40 page)

The
sea
and
wind
burst
into
the
dormitory.
In
seconds,
the
building
failed.
Ninety
children
and
all
ten
sisters
died.
Only
Will,
Albert,
and
Francis
survived,
all
by
catching
hold
of
the
same
floating
tree.

Later,
a
rescuer
found
one
toddler's
corpse
on
the
beach.
He
tried
lifting
the
child.
A
length
of
clothesline
leaped
from
the
sand,
then
tightened.
He
pulled
the
line.
Another
child
emerged.
The
line
continued
into
the
sand.
He
uncovered
eight
children
and
a
nun.

Sister
Camillus
had
hoped
the
clothesline
would
save
the
children,
but
it
was
the
clothesline,
rescuers
saw,
that
caused
so
many
to
die,
tangling
them
in
submerged
wreckage.

AUGUST
ROLLFING
SAT
alone
in
his
shop
on
24th
Street
waiting
for
his
men
to
come
for
their
pay.
As
the
storm
worsened,
his
anxiety
increased.
Water
began
coming
into
his
shop.
The
wind
accelerated.
It
rolled
up
the
tin
roofs
across
the
way,
then
hurled
them
to
the
ground
like
spent
shell
casings.
Boards
and
glass
shrapneled
the
street.
August
had
money
for
eighteen
workers.
No
one
came.

He
locked
his
shop
and
set
out
to
join
his
family,
with
absolute
faith
that
the
driver
from
Malloy's
Livery
had
in
fact
done
as
he
had
asked
and
that
now
his
family
was
safe
at
his
mother's
house.
He
struggled
west.
He
got
as
far
as
the
city
waterworks
at
30th
Street
between
Avenue
G
and
Avenue
H,
when
the
wind
picked
him
up
"like
a
piece
of
paper"
and
blew
him
out
of
the
water
onto
a
sidewalk.
He
hugged
a
telephone
pole.
In
a
lull
between
gusts,
he
crawled
to
the
waterworks
building
and
entered.
He
found
the
lobby
full
of
storm
refugees.

The
building
seemed
sturdy
enough.
What
worried
the
occupants
was
its
tall
smokestack,
which
swayed
through
the
sky
like
a
giant
black
cobra.
If
it
fell
—
when
it
fell
—
everyone
in
the
building
stood
an
excellent
chance
of
being
crushed.
Whenever
the
wind
paused,
a
group
of
refugees
would
dash
out
onto
the
sidewalk.

Rollfing
left,
accompanied
by
two
black
men.
They
went
first
to
a
grocery
store,
which
soon
became
too
dangerous.
They
moved
next
to
a
private
house.
A
beam
fell
and
killed
a
man.
They
moved
on,
until
they
saw
a
light
in
the
window
of
another
store.

August
and
his
companions
banged
on
the
door.
At
first,
the
occupants
refused
to
let
them
in.
Finally
they
relented.

It
was
nearly
dark
now.
In
the
shuddery
glow
of
lanterns
and
candles,
August
saw
that
the
store
was
crowded
with
about
eighty
men,
women,
and
children,
all
standing
on
countertops
to
keep
out
of
the
water.
But
the
water
was
rising
fast.
August
found
a
place
on
a
counter.
Soon
the
water
was
at
his
ankles,
then
his
chest.
August
lifted
someone
else's
son
onto
his
shoulders
as
the
water
rose
to
his
own
neck.

He
spent
hours
this
way,
until
a
man
shouted,
"The
water
is
going
down!
Look
at
the
door!"

The
water
had
indeed
reversed
flow.
The
store
owner
pulled
out
a
large
jug
of
whiskey
and
passed
it
around
the
room.
Men
and
women
alike
took
great
swallows
and
passed
it
on.

August
wanted
desperately
to
leave
for
his
mother's
house
to
join
his
wife
and
children
and
make
sure
they
were
still
safe.
The
water
receded
quickly,
but
to
him
its
exit
seemed
to
take
forever.
Rain
continued
cascading
from
the
darkness;
the
wind
seemed
little
changed.

At
last
the
water
level
fell
low
enough
to
enable
him
to
leave.
Outside,
he
saw
that
houses
had
been
shattered
and
upended.
He
stumbled
through
deep
holes
gouged
by
the
current,
and
over
all
manner
of
submerged
debris.
He
dodged
showers
of
timber
and
slate.
It
was
dark,
no
lights
anywhere.
He
fell,
got
up,
fell
again.
The
damage
got
progressively
worse.
Whole
blocks
had
been
crushed,
others
swept
clean.
He
knew
he
was
heading
west
—
probably
along
Avenue
H
—
but
the
darkness
and
devastation
had
eliminated
all
landmarks.

At
intervals
the
moon
emerged.
How
the
moon
could
shine
amid
such
wind
and
rain
he
did
not
know,
but
there
it
was,
visible
through
a
thin
layer
of
cloud.
A
full
moon,
no
less.
It
gave
him
light;
it
also
gave
him
fear,
for
it
showed
him
how
vast
the
plane
of
devastation
truly
was.
Spiky
dunes
of
wreckage
blocked
his
path.
From
the
top
of
each,
he
saw
that
only
a
few
homes
still
stood.
To
the
south
was
a
strange
black
shadow
two
and
three
stories
high
that
stretched
for
miles
like
a
mountain
range
freshly
jabbed
through
the
earth's
crust.

At
three
o'clock
Sunday
morning
he
came
to
his
mother's
neighborhood.
Only
her
house
looked
whole.
Everything
else
had
been
destroyed,
upended,
or
transported
toward
the
bay.
Relief
poured
into
his
heart.
He
burst
into
the
house
but
found
only
his
mother.

"Where
are
Louisa
and
the
children?
I
don't
see
them."

The
question
surprised
his
mother.
"August,
I
don't
know,"
she
said.
"They
are
not
here."
When
she
realized
that
August
expected
them
to
be
there,
she
too
became
afraid.
"When
did
they
go,"
she
asked,
"and
how?"

He
told
her
about
the
buggy
he
had
sent
at
one
o'clock
and
the
instructions
he
had
given
the
driver.

"Nobody
could
come
here
at
one
o'clock,"
his
mother
said.
August
started
toward
the
door.
"Wait,"
she
pleaded.
"Wait
until
daylight."

August
made
his
way
to
his
sister's
house.
He
saw
corpses.
The
short
journey
—
only
half
a
dozen
blocks
—
took
an
hour.
The
sight
made
him
half-crazy
with
dread.
The
house
stood
at
a
forty-five
degree
angle.
Where
Julia's
kitchen
had
been,
there
was
now
only
ajagged
black
hole.
Every
shutter
had
been
splintered,
every
window
broken.

But
there
seemed
to
be
a
light
within.
He
pounded
on
the
front
door.
The
door
opened.
He
saw
Julia
and
her
husband.
He
saw
Louisa.
He
saw
Helen,
August,
and
little
Lanta.
"Thank
God,"
he
said.

And
fainted
on
the
stairs.

HE
WAS
ALONE
in
the
water.
His
family
was
gone.
He
flailed
his
arms
and
reached
deep
underwater
and
kicked
his
legs
to
feel
for
soft
things,
clothing,
someone
alive.
He
felt
only
square
shapes,
planks,
serrated
edges.
He
had
been
inside
the
house;
now
he
was
outside
in
darkness,
in
wind
so
fast
it
planed
the
water
smooth.
There
was
lightning.
He
saw
debris
everywhere,
jutting
from
the
sea.
He
saw
a
child.
He
shimmied
free
of
the
timbers
and
swam
hard.
The
rain
stung;
he
could
hold
his
eyes
open
only
a
few
seconds
at
a
time.
He
came
to
her
and
felt
his
arm
grow
from
the
water
and
circle
her
and
knew
immediately
the
child
was
his
Esther,
his
six-year-old.
His
baby.
He
spoke
into
her
ear.
She
cried
and
grabbed
him
hard
and
put
him
under,
but
he
was
delighted.
She
asked
for
her
mother.
He
had
no
answer.
The
house
began
to
break
up.
He
swam
her
away.

He
was
elated;
he
was
distraught.
He
had
found
one
daughter
but
lost
everyone
else.
His
memory
of
them
would
be
tinted
the
yellow
of
lamplight.
He
tried
to
place
them
in
the
room,
and
by
doing
so,
to
place
them
in
the
sea.
His
wife
had
been
with
him
in
the
center
of
the
room
with
Esther.
His
two
eldest
daughters
had
been
near
the
window,
beside
Joseph.
Why
had
they
not
surfaced
too?

Isaac
and
his
baby
drifted.
There
was
more
lightning.
He
coughed
water
through
his
nose
and
mouth.
In
the
next
flare,
he
saw
three
figures
hanging
tight
to
floating
wreckage.
Isaac
swam
Esther
toward
them
against
the
wind.

He
heard
a
shout.

Joseph
Cline
said:
"My
heart
suddenly
leaped
with
uncontrollable
joy.
In
two
figures
that
clung
to
the
drift
about
one
hundred
feet
to
leeward,
I
discovered
my
brother
and
his
youngest
child."

Isaac:
"We
placed
the
children
in
front
of
us,
turned
our
backs
to
the
winds
and
held
planks,
taken
from
the
floating
wreckage,
to
our
backs
to
distribute
and
lighten
the
blows
which
the
wind
driven
debris
was
showering
upon
us
continually."

Joseph:
"Our
little
group
now
numbered
five.
We
remained
close
together,
climbing
and
crawling
from
one
piece
of
wreckage
to
another,
with
each
of
the
latter
in
turn
sinking
under
our
weight.
At
one
time
it
seemed
as
though
we
were
indeed
lost.
A
weather-battered
hulk
that
had
once
been
a
house
came
bearing
down
upon
us,
one
side
upreared
at
an
angle
of
about
forty-five
degrees,
at
a
height
from
six
to
eight
feet
higher
than
our
drift.
I
was
conscious
of
being
direly
frightened,
but
I
retained
sufficient
presence
of
mind
to
leap
as
the
monster
reached
us,
and
to
get
a
grip
with
my
hands
on
the
highest
edge
of
the
wreck.
My
weight
was
enough
to
drag
it
perceptibly
lower
in
the
water,
and
I
called
my
brother,
who
added
his
weight
to
my
own."

Isaac:
"Sometimes
the
blows
of
debris
were
so
strong
that
we
would
be
knocked
several
feet
into
the
surging
waters,
when
we
would
fight
our
way
back
to
the
children
and
continue
the
struggle
to
survive."

Joseph:
"At
one
point,
two
other
castaways,
a
man
and
a
woman,
joined
us
on
the
wreckage
that,
at
that
time,
was
serving
us
as
a
lifeboat.
The
strangers
remained
with
us
for
some
little
time,
until
the
man
crawled
up
to
where
I
sat,
pulled
the
two
children
away,
and
tried
to
shelter
himself
behind
my
body.
I
pushed
him
indignantly
away
and
drew
the
children
back.
He
repeated
the
unspeakable
performance.
This
time
I
drew
out
a
knife
that
I
carried,
and
threatened
him
with
it."